Deviated Septum
by Clannadlvr
Summary: Julia's thoughts during Sydney's missing two years.


Author: Clannadlvr  
  
Title: Deviated Septum  
  
Fandom: Alias  
  
Pairing: None  
  
Rating: PG-13 (for a little bit 'o language and content)  
  
Archive: Wherever, but please ask me first!  
  
Spoilers: Anything up to the latest Alias episode, "Crossings". (US)  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own Alias or anything related to it. That's for the people at ABC and Bad Robot to deal with. I'm not making any money off this, so please don't sue. Thanks!  
  
Summary: How do you balance two identities, showing one to the world, but still keeping the other in reserve in the hopes of revealing it again someday?  
  
Author's note: This is in response to Slodwick's picture challenge, in particular a pic of the edge of a swimming pool, YMCA style, with two diving boards. This fic takes place during Sydney Bristow's "missing" two years.  
  
***  
  
She never knew chlorine could smell like ambrosia.  
  
Julia doesn't like harsh smells- not unless it's the tang of flowing liquor or the musky scent of sex, edged with pain. Visceral pleasures you can count on, time after time. Sweat, tequila, blood, bourbon, semen.  
  
But Sydney was a different story. She loved the buttery punch of microwave popcorn against the smell of a faded afghan as she watched a chick flick with Francie. The cool tone of Vaughn's cologne dancing along her skin when their shoulders brushed during a handholding walk along the Pacific, or even as he leaned over in a briefing to pass her a file. Even the exhaust of her gas guzzling SUV, coughing and spewing as she gunned it onto the freeway. The scents of fading memory.  
  
But Sydney couldn't show her face any more. Except for here, in this climate controlled, regulated, chemically perfected tank.  
  
Julia's face is blank. Not placid, not calm or content. Not even the type of face you wear when riding up an elevator or watching the traffic lights sullenly change color. Just blank.  
  
She walks toward the edge, not feeling the porous concrete sloughing the dead skin from her roughened heels. She passes the line hook on the wall, giving it a brief thought as a possible weapon should the need arise. The light splashing sounds of the children in the shallow end don't turn up the corners of Julia's lips. She hears, sees, counts, documents the number of lifeguards, paying little attention to their flirtatious conversations with scantily clad swimmers. She steps mechanically to the diving board, her hands on the metal railings, palming them carelessly. When she reaches the end of the small board and begins to bounce, her proximity to the water leaves her no choice but to smell the chlorine.  
  
Julia's nose wrinkles up in distaste even as Sydney's heart leaps.  
  
Deep. deeper. deepest till she has the push she needs. A perfect swan dive through the air with an ice queen face. Measured and precise, the recirculated air hitting a featureless wall, Julia flies toward the water.  
  
Julia's fingers touch the surface, followed by hands, wrists, forearms.then Sydney's face.  
  
Muscles so long dormant wake up as Sydney's expression changes. It's something she's hidden away for so long that at first she forgets how. But after a moment in the clear blue nothingness, she remembers. And smiles.  
  
As she cuts expertly through the water, Sydney's mind kicks into high gear. These moments in the water are the only times when Julia lets Sydney make a reappearance. For her "transformation" to be believable, Sydney truly lives as Julia most of the time. Her words are Julia's, her expressions, her movements belong to this new person she's become. In the morning when she applies her lipstick or fixes her hair in the mirror, her expression is all Julia. She knows they're everywhere. perhaps even behind a dressing table mirror. For 23 hours and 30 minutes a day she is Julia Thorne.  
  
And for the other 30 minutes she can remember a life she's left behind.  
  
Stroke. Stroke. Her head tilts upward, slightly breaking the water for air.  
  
She thinks about her father. The man she hardly knew. So many years she struggled to find her way to him. And for what? To be taken from him just as they'd finally grasped a common ground? Her strokes become shorter, harder.  
  
She thinks about her mother. The hockey rink. The pain. The love. Sydney wonders where she is after her grand escape. Rambaldi's notes replaced by post-its. memories of a car crash victim conflated with a brutal, if loving, woman. She sees someone who too closely has a face like her own.  
  
She thinks about Francie. The pressure in her chest is so great that Sydney has to force herself to take a breath. But the pressure remains. How many months had her friend been gone before the slip over ice cream. She thinks back to the conversations they'd shared, those little moments when her roommate had seemed somewhat "off." She remembers ignoring it, assuming it was Francie's nerves over starting a new restaurant. Stupid, stupid, stupid. The signs were there. She just didn't want to see them. She wonders how Francie died. Was it quick and easy, a bullet placed execution style? A vicious knifing? A poisoned drink? Julia never thinks these things. but Sydney always does as her hands cut through the water.  
  
The smile she had when she first entered the water is gone. But that's the great thing about swimming. Salty tears mix with chlorine so effortlessly, no one is the wiser.  
  
She thinks about Vaughn. She can't think about him, but at the same time all she does is see his face. He's the one who creeps into Julia's thoughts when Sydney is supposed to be sleeping. What's funny is it's not love and lust and longing that fills her when she remembers his face. It's anger. Soul searing, gut wrenching, murderous anger. Her strokes become even more frenzied.  
  
Breathe, Syd, breathe. Left. Right. Left. Right. Breathe.  
  
Her strokes slow but her heart still burns. She remembers how it felt to see him, how her heart clenched and grew when she saw him in front of his house. How her world slipped upside down as she saw him with her. The blonde.  
  
Bitch.  
  
Sydney knows she has to stop. The memories, the strokes. Resignedly she finishes the last lap. Mom. Dad.Will. Francie. Marshal.. Dixon. Vaughn.  
  
In that last moment as she reaches the ladder, floating upwards, she tucks them inside.  
  
Julia ascends the ladder, her feet meeting, but not feeling, the coarse pavement beneath her. Her face is blank. Empty. She grabs her towel, rubs down her toned legs. As each water droplet leaves her body, her movements change, more cat like. Practiced. She turns on her heels and walks to the locker room.  
  
And until this time next week, leaves Sydney behind. 


End file.
